


As If Light Has Casted A Shadow

by VitaAstora



Category: MTDC, Methods: The Detective Competition, 探案法：侦探大赛
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:02:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26697178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VitaAstora/pseuds/VitaAstora
Summary: Detective Roel must find a way to kill the tedious time on the train during Stage Three.
Kudos: 3





	As If Light Has Casted A Shadow

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [如光影般](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26692375) by [boundless_sea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/boundless_sea/pseuds/boundless_sea). 



> A simple, short record from Roel's perspective in Stage Three.  
> No spoilers for the main plot.

I’m sitting on the bed. The cane stands on the ground, the handle is in my hand.

I know the bedsheets I’m sitting on is white, for bed sheets are always white - it has this clean, linen aura that I would like to call “white” - and Noose told me they’re white. Therefore, bedsheets should be white. Should they be white, however, the Game-Master changed them a bit too frequently. Every day I returned from the dining car, I could smell the thick air of detergent filling in the compartment, as well as the lukewarm fragrance emitted from dried clothes. This seems to me as an unnecessary move and always makes me wonder: Why would the Game-Master rather take much effort to change the bedsheets for all the detectives every single day instead of building some shower rooms on this train? This is an unprecedented competition to be sure, but I still feel like many decisions were done without careful thinking.

The train is rushing along the railway in the middle of the sun-tanned desert. I can hear the wheels biting into the tracks – the endless beat of crashes and clangs. Should I be careful enough, I can tell where every spike stands on the railway. Whenever the train switch modes, it would emit a screech from afar, causing by metal rubbing hard into one another. That faraway cry coming from the very front of the train would so often hide in the howling winds that only I could capture with my ears. Upon hearing it, I can hold onto the nearby surface in time. Then there would be the bumping noise of falling objects clashing with the ground, the yelling and yelping of people stumbling around, occasionally with some muffled nose-cracking sounds as well. More than often, I found myself the only person standing still after that. 

People would prefer to stay still on the train, for they know they’d end up being jolted around if they dare to move further than an inch. I prefer not to move around, only because I can’t see the point of it. I don’t know if the Game-Master had brushed this away with a careless hand, or he deliberately made such arrangement to place nothing else but some stools and chairs facing each other across the table in the lounge car, with no televisions and no chessboards to kill the time, only for detectives to stare at their fellow contestants awkwardly, trying hard to pick up some chit-chat. According to Slakes, life in the 2nd, 3rd and 4th class should be even more tedious, for in those trains the most thrilling thing to read is the menu printed on one side of the paper, handed out to everyone in the dining car. If you are so fixated on figuring out the exact ingredients used in a Mouse Burger or a Slakes Sandwich, and you would prefer arguing with anyone you meet with the menu in your hand, then you probably can live a pretty decent life there.

To be honest, I don’t know what exactly did they put on the menu. This is partially due to the reason that the Game-master didn’t bother to put a line of Braille translation next to the many texts I’ve come across so far - maybe he’ll die from the sheer trouble of doing so. Noose being much too eager to order my food for me should take the most credit, though. Every single time she would mumble to herself, saying that she should remember not to order Nell Noodles for me next time. Every single “next time”, however, she would continue pushing the bowl with soba noodles soaked in it towards me. Her brain is so numbed with alcohol and sugar that she couldn’t possibly remember anything I have ever said. Therefore, if kind protests by mild language don’t work, I shall take some more drastic actions to change her mind.

That’s why I have locked myself up in my compartment. Five minutes ago, Noose came knocking at my door, yet before she got any response from me, a sudden jolt of the train abruptly changed her mind. She then happily forgot about her previous actions and stumbled towards the dining car. I sat silently on my bed, with a copy of Crime Tape Magazine by my hand, waiting for Noose’s returning to her compartment so that I could grab that chance and enjoy my free time. I can be very patient, for I always have ways to amuse myself while sitting tight.

Crime Tape Magazine. The First Class detectives are always complaining about it, saying that it is but some tedious documents. According to their descriptions, every illustration is blurred, out of focus, distorted, as if they are some Polaroid photos of surveillance camera screens. For me, however, this is one interesting magazine. The pages are all so smooth, filled with words and images I shall never learn, yet reading through it has become my favorite pastime.

I can feel the subtle bulges and humps on the cover - lines of letters pieced together, bringing out no other information than the big title of the magazine, its date of publication, and some brief descriptions of the trend. Six copperplate pages in total, with extremely fine, polished papers reserved for advertisements. Rushing through the first half of the book - there’s a penetrating crease on page 27. It went on to mark page 29 with a shallower fold, eventually leaving a skin-deep scratch on page 31 as well. Noose pounded her martini glass on the table, so the transparent bottom made its way violently into the condensed pages, scarring the magazine permanently. People said that if you fold the bruised corner of the page in the opposite direction, you can restore its previous glory - nice and unruffled once again. I understand this is not how it goes. The truth is, by doing so, that vile wrinkle would only become broader in size, rougher and more obvious than ever before. I would be able to feel its rash even with my gloves on. ‘Tis but yet another regret in this life you can’t possibly turn back the clock for.

Moving on, a strong smell of ink caught my attention, which reminds me of the possible existence of a double-spread designed with large portions of dark color on page 42 and 43. Then there’s this gatefold on page 57 which is so eager to slip out. If I lay the whole book on my knees, it could drop all the way down to reach the floor. I’d gladly put much effort into folding it back, as I happened to have infinite time and patience to spend.

At last, I feel around the back cover. There’s a little sticker poking out a bit in the corner with some fierce handwriting on it. Were those words written directly on the back, I could’ve told their contexts simply by pressing my fingers against the inner side of the hardcover, waiting for the bumps of letters to reveal themselves. But with an additional layer of the sticker in my way, I shall only make wild guesses that this should mark the price of the magazine. Judging from the dark sense of humor of the Game-Master, it could very likely be a staggering figure, saying that this magazine worth way more than some random island out in the seven seas.

This marked the end of the limited fun Crime Tape Magazine could provide me with. Maybe I’ll let some other detectives have it, bruise it with curled up papers and ripped off pages so that I can have something new to “read”. Not a bad idea, yet not very plausible when I’m all alone here in my compartment. Noose won’t return for another 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 30 minutes - I must find a way to amuse myself with the whirling thoughts in my head in the meantime. 

Therefore, I shift a bit for a more comfortable sitting stance, with my docile cane resting horizontally on my knees. I close my eyes, fully embracing the darkness, pulling every string of light and shadow from my most profound memory.

I see -

Red light, staring at me like a bright eye through the clear glass veil. A cold, hollow voice of a male presence announced: “The 9000 Series has a perfect operational record”. Two plotting mouths, being observed by the red light, the cosmos is merely one step further from them. A room clogged up by smoke, a screaming woman, a boy wearing a mask, a brisk, sick song of Singin’ in the Rain. Beethoven’s symphony, a dropping tear, eyelids being forced out of the way to make sure his eyes are wild open, clean and tidy suits, a smashed camera on the ground. The specimen, motel, bathroom, knife. The human-shaped deformation of the soft and gentle bed, the old-fashioned car swallowed by the depth of some remote swamp, he’s not even gonna swat that fly...Waves are washing the bottom of the cliff, a flustered bride, a haunting ghost...A sunken sailboat emerging from beneath the water surface, a gloomy house by the sea, she’s lying on the sofa chair, an ashtray full of cigarette butts next to her. She looks ill, uncomfortable. All of a sudden, she -

I stand up and grasp the cane. I walk forward in slow and steady steps as if waiting for the camera to follow up. Some murmurs, then a burst of loud laughter, abruptly from me – and then I say:

“How funny. How supremely, wonderfully funny. I’ll be the perfect mother, just as I’ve been the perfect wife.”

I turn around and keep pacing:

“No one will ever know. It ought to give you the thrill of your life, Max.”

I smile:

“...and to know that when you die, Manderley will be his - ”

I wasn’t able to finish my monologue, for I bumped into the brim of my bed, causing me to lose balance. I fell on the soft mattress, hitting the pause button in my brain. All images went dark and vanished into the void. I’m called back by the clean scent of linen filling my nostrils. It took me a few seconds to proceed what has just happened, that I was so caught up with my acting, and another few seconds for me to realize I’ve been sleeping on my cane this whole time, which emits a tiny, painful groan from beneath me. I pull myself up in a hurry, busy adjusting my skirt and shawl, even tilt my visor hat a bit. I managed to hold back the thought of clearing my throat, for that I know not a single soul would hear me being extra.

“Huh. That’s strange…” I murmur to myself, “But it is a nice film nonetheless. I should listen to it again sometime later…or I can find an audiobook…”

Before I had the chance to fully untangle my thoughts, I hear crescendo footstep sounds outside, as well as constant burps and hiccups. I hold my breath as Noose stop for a moment, scratching her brain to see if she has forgotten anything or anyone, then proceed to swing back into her compartment with no results. I hear a loud clicking sound from the lock next-door, then a heavy, bumping sound that falls on the bed, followed by some slight snoring noises…

I sighed in relief.

I pat on my clothes once again, casually scratched my tangled hair to make sure I look decent enough, then I leave the room with the cane in my hand. On the joggled corridor of the train, I walk in perfectly steady paces, half-heartedly wondering about what food I ought to try out.

Maybe the Rhubarb pie I smelled from earlier shall be a good idea.


End file.
